Kætil II: See My Renown
River Isanar, The Frozen Trails, Scelopyrea.
The First Day of the Forth Moon, 873 AD.
They'd gotten very unlucky. What should have been a short ride back to the camp lasting no longer than a night for their small band at the most had turned into a multi-week affair. Why?
Because it seemed as though a freak landslide had knocked out only bridge across the river Isanar that was still usable, so they'd had to travel two-hundred fucking miles upstream to find a ford that they, their horses, and their wounded could cross without being swept away by the greatest of the river Aenir's tributaries.
The journey had been disheartening, to say the least. The spirits of even the most cheerful amongst his retinue had fallen far this last week, and just about the only man amongst his companions to still be smiling was Krai, because of course he was. The man was as mad as a march hare, had only one eye, and seemed to have broken nearly every rib he had before taking an axe to the chest, and yet somehow he seemed to be the only one amongst them all to be completely unaffected by the arduous journey they'd all needed to make.
Kætil tapped the amber pendant around his neck. It was a treasured thing, one of his most important possessions, and he guarded it jealously. Never did it leave his neck, not with how rare things like it were. It was an expertly carved thing, as thick as his thumb and half as wide as his palm, and upon it were etched runes that called upon the one worthy god for courage, to bolster his morale whenever it may flag and he feared his own mind would fail him. 'Spirit', he'd been told the rune meant when the druids had given it to him, and though some called it superstition he was certain it worked. Yes, there were those that claimed even the druids could not truly give out boons from the Lord of Slaughter, but then Kætil had never run from a fight so it had to be doing something.
"What are you thinking about over there?" A voice called from behind him, and so he turned to face it.
"I'm thinking It'll be nice to be back at the warcamp. It'll be good to see my father and tell him of our victories."
Svaltha nodded at him, though the action seemed rather absentminded and he was uncertain as to whether or not she'd actually listened to him. He shrugged to himself and decided it didn't really matter, so he turned back in his saddle and concentrated once more on the trail in front of him, not to mention the woods on either side.
He had no intention of getting ambushed again after all.
Even with his sullen mood, there was no doubting that it was nice to get to know the druid with him. If he didn't know any better he'd say she was planted for him to find, so well did they get on! Besides, they were less than a day from the camp now and rapidly approaching from the north. They were hungry, tired, and carrying wounded, but they were alive and heading for hearth and home! It had been a hell of an adventure, but Kætil was proud to say that they'd done it; their mission had been a success, and he'd rescued a druid before fending off an ambush and leading his men back to safety despite the adversity they'd all encountered.
They just needed to ride a little further.
Krakevasil, but he was tired. Not as tired as Krai, that poor bastard, but at least his friend could look forwards to spending some time in the healer's tents instead of giving a report to the Great Jaerl himself.
Kætil thought for a little bit on the state of the healer's tents and how... unsympathetic the healers themselves could be, and then shuddered. Scratch what he'd said about Krai being able to look towards rest, he genuinely wasn't sure if Krai would rather have died on the road.
He walked with purpose towards his father's feasting tent, where he knew the big man would be holding court. Well, he said holding court, but their courts were very different from the 'real' courts to the south. This was not a place of law and policy, but one of fighting and feasting. That was what real rulership was made of after all. Svaltha and Syren followed to his right and left respectively, close behind but not quite in his shadow.
The two guards noticed him as he approached, helmet under his arm and aventail waving freely in the breeze. They each slammed a fist to their chest in greeting before stepping aside to let him in. He'd seen those guards around his father a lot these last few years, but still didn't know their names. They were scary buggers, even he would admit that. They were each a head taller than he was and well-built, but they were just... completely silent. They could fight alongside one another like no-one else he'd seen, but they were completely silent the whole time. Their eyes gave nothing away, but did make him feel a little uneasy.
"Father, I have returned!"
His voice cut through the din in the hall, and immediately all eyes were upon him. He continued without waiting for a response.
"The mission was a success. Me and the lads found the convoy, killed the two Jotun who'd smashed it to bits, and rescued the novice druid as the druidic orders had wished me to."
"My son," his father started, clearly relieved to see him but aware that he couldn't show such emotion so openly in front of his men, "it is good to see you again! But your tale does not explain why it took you so long to reach us. You've been gone almost an entire moon, boy."
Kætil couldn't help but smile at his father as he continued.
"On our way back we were set upon by the agents of the Eyvindottir, father. We bested them, of course, but when we continued on our way we found the only bridge across the Isanar had collapsed. We spent weeks riding north to try and find a good ford across the river, and the rest of our time riding back south. It's my honour to tell you that, aside from those we lost to the Jotun or the ambush, I never lost a single man to the elements along that journey."
He knelt before his father then, having finished with the broad strokes of his report. Any further specifics his father could ask him about himself if he so wished. As soon as he made to kneel Syren did as well, as did Svaltha. It wasn't uncommon to find druids unwilling to bow, but Kætil was pleased that she wasn't so obstinate and proud as to think herself above the Great Jaerl himself, the rightful ruler of all Scelopyrea.
"I see a druid by your side, son. I take it you're the one he saved?"
Kætil tilted his head a little and nodded at Svaltha, letting her know it was her time to speak.
"I am, Great Jaerl. Your son... rescued me from the two Jotun who came down from the hills. In the process he managed to uncover some information about the movements of the Jotun that my superiors will no doubt be happy to learn, led his men in defending themselves against an ambush from a numerically superior force of hunters sworn to the Valkyrie-Queen, and led his men over four-hundred miles across the countryside to see them back here to safety. He's done well by you, if it is not to presumptuous for me to make such statements."
Dyfed's smile was evident in his voice, pride radiating from his smile as the young druid listed his achievements on the field. He'd led dozens of missions before now, but never once was father anything other than proud of him and his exploits. As much as he might have been loathe to admit such a thing out loud, Kætil was intensely glad for his father; he couldn't see himself reaching the hights he already had without his father being such a genuinely caring person when it came to him.
"It is never too presumptuous for one who communes with the Lord of Fresh Carrion to make such assumptions!"
The Great Jaerl's gaze shifted slightly back towards Kætil, the pride in his eyes only growing.
"My son, the Jotunslayer! Well now, it seems we must have a longer conversation about this, son. A longer conversation, and a great many drinks!"
There was a cheer from the crowd at that, and Kætil smiled as he rose to his feet alongside his companions. He'd killed his first jotun. Not just that, he'd killed his second as well.
Jotunslayer. He liked the sound of that.
Almost as much as he liked the sound of that drink.
"You, Syren!"
"Aye, Great Jaerl?"
Dyfed was silent for a moment, looking Kætil's strange friend up and down appraisingly before sniffing mightily and nodding.
"You do well watching my son's back. Keep up your work, keep the knives out of his back, and you'll be rewarded well indeed."
Kætil watched as Syren simply nodded once again in response, a strangely sincere and solemn motion given the tone just moment's before, much like how his father's tone had shifted for that matter.
Syren and Dyfed continued staring at each other for a little while, one with a shrewd and calculating gaze and the other with absolute loyalty. Kætil didn't think Syren would move from where he'd rooted himself without his father's say so in that moment.
Luckily for them he got it in the form of a final, sincere nod, which seemed to conclude whatever silent conversation his friend and his father had been having. His father smiled widely once more and stood from his throne at the top of the dais, summoning forth several kegs of ale with a wave of his hand. Tomorrow Kætil would see to his mundane duties, but tonight? Tonight was for drinking until he couldn't stand on his own two feet.
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"So then, 'Jotunslayer'," a feminine voice called out from somewhere to his right, "now that we're back I want to spar. You seem like an alright fighter, if a little slow. You wanna give me a try?"
He heard Syren snicker a little at Svaltha's comment as she approached, though when Kætil turned to glare at his friend the little shit poorly disguised the gesture with a cough.
"You wanna spar? Alright then. Best of five, no armour. South coast rules."
She nodded at him in response, a smile on her face as a few more of the boys came around to watch the clearly developing duel.
"Sounds good to me. Try not to pass out on me too quickly. I know how hungover you must be from three nights ago."
He chuckled a little at that comment, the reminder of the truly epic feast that had been held last night. Krakevasil, what a bloody good night that had been.
"You both know the rules, so get on with it! I'll call winner!"
Kætil nodded at his friend, noting that Svaltha did the same. He hefted his greatsword in his right hand whilst Svaltha readied her sacrificial blade. It wasn't the pathetic little knife that the Brythonians called a ceremonial blade either; the druids of Scelopyrea preferred sacrificial blades the size of a shortsword more than anything else, either curved like a sickle or straight-edged as any true sword. This one seemed to fall soundly in the latter category, save only a slight curve near the tip of the blade. He had few doubts that this blade had been used for more than lambs these last few years.
The two of them circled each other for a good while before the young druid launched into a furious flurry of attacks that he was only just able to turn aside or otherwise block. Not one to go down without a fight he retorted as best as he could, though the increased length of his greatsword was somewhat of a hinderance up close like this. If this were a real fight he'd be half-swording, but given that he hadn't any protection on his hands that wasn't really an option for him.
The bout ended with him flat on his back in less than three minutes, which would have been embarrassing if he didn't get to give the rest of the lads so much shit for going down on a regular basis.
"Fuckin' hell, I'm already getting a sweat on. You're good, credit where it's due, but you won't get me down that easy again."
He took his shirt off to better ground himself on the cold air, closing his eyes and forcing his muscles to relax. He could win this easily enough, just so long as he stayed relaxed.
Their second bout left a few of the lads enraptured by the back and forwards. It might have been a rare enough thing to find an equal in combat, but he'd been a fool to underestimate Svaltha. After all, he'd already known she was special, and she had to be special to have stood by his side as she previously had. For quite some time they went back and forwards once more, the two of them unarmoured but certainly not unarmed. To the weak-willed southerners it probably would have looked like they were genuinely trying to kill each other, and in a sense they were; if you weren't giving a practice bout your all and treating it like the real thing then it wasn't very good practice, was it?
He knew that the boys already respected her for fighting at his side in the ambush, for fighting alongside them against the forces of the Valkyrie-Queen who stood between his father and a unified Scelopyrea, but that was different. Anyone could fight like a daemon when they believed their life depended on it, but this was a whole new avenue of combat. This was a friendly spar, and paradoxically that was potentially more telling of what a combatant was like. In friendly spars there was little need to muster your best, little need for adrenaline and the rush of battle to overtake you and guide your hand. All that being said, that meant that if she could hold her own here...
Yes, she was good indeed.
He moved to heft his sword in one hand, lashing out with a clenched fist with the other. He had little intention of ensuring that the blow connected, but it did force her to duck down low to avoid it which had been his plan the whole time. As she lowered herself somewhat he pulled around his greatsword in a sweeping arc aimed at her legs, and while she was just about able to get her own blade around in time to block the savage manoeuvre she was still knocked off balance by the awkward angle she'd been forced into, making it rather easy for him to barge into his sparring partner and knock her to the floor.
"Second match goes to Kætil! Good on you boss, you're one for one now. Back in positions!"
Kætil moved himself back to his marked place, readying himself again. He wasn't going to just accept a one for one! He was Kætil, son of Dyfed, grandson of Ostæin, and he was destined for greatness! But then if he was destined for greatness, and she was able to best him thrice in combat...
He shook himself a little, shuddering as the delightful sensation that came with readying himself for combat coursed through him once more. Perhaps it was time to change up his style? He'd only fought in his native Scelopyrene style so far after all, perhaps it would be good to incorporate something else into the mix?
No, he thought to himself, not yet. The next bout after this one makes more sense. I need to see if she's got any more tricks of her own first before I play my hand.
The third round came and went, and it turned out he'd been wise to wait. She'd had more than one trick that she'd played that round to get him off his feet, and then a few more when she'd realised that if she couldn't get her blade to his throat then he had no intention of staying down. Still, she'd eventually won the bout despite his best efforts. He wasn't worried though; he was certain that she'd thouroughly exhausted her arsenal of tricks, and so now it was his turn to pull a little 'foreign influence' into his fighting style.
Syren made a comment and a bet, stating that he was putting however many coins he had on him that "the new girl knocks the chief on his ass again this round". Kætil, more than a little galvanised by this, felt a fresh rush of energy flow through him. Krai took Syren up on the man's bet when he saw the glint in Kætil's eye, nodding with a grin at him whilst Kætil grinned back. Yes, it was time for something a little more exotic to enter the ring.
He threw her off in this round with a move he'd picked up from the Skonisnomas, a move that required him to feint not once but twice before tossing his sword from his right hand to his left and striking hard at her waist. Strictly speaking the Skonisnomas tended to rely on swiftness more than strength, but he needed to put as much weight behind the strike as possible to compensate for how unwieldy his sword felt in his unpractised left hand. She actually swore as the second feint saw her move off-balance, doubly so when the handle of his blade swapped hands and came down at her.
Svaltha caught the blow on her own smaller blade, but whilst she could blunt the blow the sheer force of it knocked her and made her stumble clean out of the small ring. Kætil smiled back at Syren.
"You were saying something?"
His second in command rolled his eyes as he called the bout, grumbling something under his breath about "bloody horse-man tricks" before handing a few coins over to a grinning Krai, who gleefully took them and nodded in an exaggerated manner at Kætil to show his thanks. The coins Syren handed over were a motley collection, for the Scelopyrene had never bothered with making coins of their own. Instead they used pillaged coins from other societies; Klironomean crows and sparrows, Tildan saints-faces, and Kætil was pretty sure he'd even seen a ceremonial Sotenari broken-ankh before now. Such coins came from what seemed to him as entire worlds away when he was a child, but now he'd grown he recognised what using such a motley collection of coins meant, what it represented. It gave a message to every trader who came to the shores of Scelopyrea to sell their wares: 'If your civilisation is within reach of the sea, then you're not safe from us. You'll never be safe from us. We will go where we please, and we take what we want from who we want. We're the masters of this world, no matter what you think'.
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When the last round was over and done with he was spent. Not in a 'too tired to carry on' manner, but more of a 'I'm grinning like a fool too much to concentrate' kind of way.
Even as he was lain out on the ground with Svaltha's blade to his throat, he couldn't help but grin. Oh, he'd just known she was something special. To yield in combat was something he hated, for usually it was only through the luck of his opponent rather than any true skill, but at this moment in time he wasn't sure if he'd ever been as happy as when responded to her nonverbal command to give in.
"I yield."
And with that his men cheered the victor, clapping her on the shoulder and, of course, helping Kætil to his feet. She was smiling in what seemed to be an almost confused happiness at a still heavily injured Krai while she took a step back, whilst Syren smiled down at him and clasped one of his forearms to help him up to his feet.
"She's got you beat, boss."
"Oh, I am more than aware of that Syren."
"You don't seem too cut up about that."
He barked out a laugh at his friend.
"Trust me, I am fucking elated right now. Anger is about as far from my mind as it's ever been."
Syren laughed as well, shaking his head a little.
"I fucking knew it'd be a woman that ended up kicking your ass, and I fucking knew that you'd enjoy it a little too much for it to be normal."
"Hey, what can I say? She's good at what she does."
"And I'll not deny that for even a moment. Come on, lets get some fucking drinks. Her as well, she's earned it."
His second in command turned to the rest of the lads with a snarls, since to a man they were standing around doing bugger all. Krai coughed wetly and his knees seemed to buckle somewhat, and Kætil watched as Syren swiftly moved over to him to hold him upright.
"And for the love of the Raven-God, will someone please help me get Krai back into the healer's tents before he keels over and dies? Raven's teeth, do I have to do everything myself!"
Kætil stifled a laugh as another of his men sheepishly moved to assist Syren, Krai slowly walking back in the directions of the healer's tents thanks to the help of his two comrades. Even as he walked on shaking legs whilst being incredibly injured he still somehow managed to flash a grin back at Kætil as he wheezed out a snarky comment.
"New challenger, boss. I would've offered to fight you today after that last one if you hadn't already lost three times. You might even have had a chance to win thanks to my ribs."
"If you say so, you graceless shit. Get back to the fucking healers before I give you another reason to head down there."
Krai laughed a little, the motion quickly turning into a hacking cough as he spoke before turning back to face the direction he was being carried in.
"You got it, boss man! Try not to lose so soundly next time!"
He flipped off his wounded comrade as the man was carried off, a lazy smile on both of their faces. He was very much fond of his brothers, and they of him. Ravens help him, but they were all beginning to rely on each other. And they were all brothers, of that there could be no mistake. They were not bound by blood, but they were brothers nonetheless. There was to be held a ceremonial feast in a few days time, both to celebrate the victory they had won and to mourn the loss of those who had otherwise fallen. He, Krai, and Syren had survived however, and he knew for a fact that he was going to keep the two of them by his side as his trusted seconds.
Of course, there was now another member to that little circle he'd built up. Turning to face her with that same lazy smile on his face he clasped her forearm in a warrior's handshake.
"Those were some good moves back there, Svaltha. Damn good indeed. We'll be fighting and sparring a lot more these next few weeks, of that I have no doubt. All four of us: you, me, Syren, and Krai. We're going to be sparring with each other a hell of a lot in the weeks to come."
She grinned back at him, clearly relishing the prospect of more bouts to come.
"And after that?"
"After that we'll be too busy fighting the enemy alongside one another to fight each other! Wherever my father orders his forces after the Eyvindottir is crushed, be it to the islanders of the west or the divided Angel-worshippers to the south, I'll make sure we're at the front of every battle, the vanguard of every host! We'll spill a torrent of blood in Krakevasil's name, and the halls of Scelopyrea will ring out each night with the sounds of people singing songs of our deeds!"
She huffed out a laugh, but something in her eyes told him she very much liked the idea of spilling that much blood.
"You talk a big game, pretty-boy."
"I know I do," he said, grin still in place, "but only because I know I can do it."
She laughed heartily at that before leaving with some of the lads for the offered drinks, and as she walked away and he made to follow her he just couldn't stop his mind from running away from him.
By the Raven-God, what a fucking fascinating woman.